


so much more

by riahk



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Church Sex, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Love Confessions, Marking, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26677351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riahk/pseuds/riahk
Summary: Fodlan may be at war, but Sylvain still tries to cherish the little things. The slow but steady progress they've made restoring the crumbled buildings of the monastery; the flowers blooming in the greenhouse; the warmth of a freshly brewed pot of tea, when the army's budget can afford it. Though it's training and skirmishes that take up most of his waking hours, these small experiences remind him what he is fighting for.His biggest motivation, of course, is a who rather than a what. And right now she is standing in front of the vanity across the room from his bed, running fingers over her own naked body.-After catching Dorothea using her healing magic to erase one of the hickeys he's given her, Sylvain realizes just how much he wants her to be his.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Kudos: 26
Collections: DoroVain Weekend 2020





	so much more

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This is my entry for Day 3 of Dorovain Weekend 2020, a (very loose) interpretation of the prompt 'healing'. Enjoy!

Fodlan may be at war, but Sylvain still tries to cherish the little things. The slow but steady progress they've made restoring the crumbled buildings of the monastery; the flowers blooming in the greenhouse; the warmth of a freshly brewed pot of tea, when the army's budget can afford it. Though it's training and skirmishes that take up most of his waking hours, these small experiences remind him what he is fighting for.

His biggest motivation, of course, is a _who_ rather than a _what_. And right now she is standing in front of the vanity across the room from his bed, running fingers over her own naked body.

It is early morning, and Dorothea's back is to Sylvain with her gaze fixed on her reflection, unaware that she is not the only one awake in the room. It's mostly true, at least; Sylvain's body is still slumbering, bare torso curled sideways while his legs are splayed out and tangled in the sheets. His cheek is pressed comfortably against the pillow, allowing him to admire her through half-lidded eyes.

When they first met, her body was softer. An adolescence spent with the opera, while not sedentary, had been more focused on strengthening her voice than her muscles. At the academy, when vocal warmups were replaced with laps around the training grounds and stage combat was replaced with actual combat, the tender layers of her flesh developed more definition and tone. Those contours have only deepened with the past five years of conflict; they are especially visible now, in the early morning light, casting shadows that give a firm depth to her limbs and attest to the power - both magical and physical - sleeping at her core.

The flames of war have hardened everyone, as he sees now, trying to count up the small knicks and scars scattered across her body. She has been fortunate enough to not receive any deep wounds; the blade-borne scratches barely amount to thin lines a shade or two lighter than her normal complexion. More noticeable are the jagged, dark lines that run along the veins of her hands and spread haphazardly along her forearms like shattered glass, a side effect of manifesting literal lightning to the delicate tips of her still-slender fingers.

Maybe it is because he is from Faerghus, where the common motto is ‘what does not kill me makes me stronger’, but the marks on Dorothea’s skin only make Sylvain love her more. It would be hypocritical to fault her for them, considering the wide swathes of him that have been sliced open and mended back together - oftentimes by her - so many times that the tissue has grown thick, dark, and as much a part of him as his messy tangerine hair or his deft, innate skill with a lance.

He’s not sure if Dorothea holds the same affection for her appearance, with the way she scrutinizes herself in the mirror. Her fingers press against the soft underside of her arm - gently at first, but then her hand grips and pulls and kneads the muscle with enough force to distort the lasting threads of magic into an even more chaotic tangle. She applies the same pressure to her hands and fingers; moving the joints as though she is affirming that she still exists and can feel the stretch and pull of her tendons as she pads her thumb along each knuckle. Moving downward, following the curve of her waist and the wide set of her hips, she digs her fingers into the flesh and walks them, spider-like, all the way along the edges of her outer thighs.

After examining the permanent fixtures on her body, she moves on to the more temporary ones. A series of discolored spots, ranging from light pink to a deep plum, bloom across her chest and trail upwards along her collarbones and neck. Sylvain eyes them proudly, remembering the fervor with which he gave them to her the previous evening. And the breathless way Dorothea had cried out his name as he did, her fingers digging passionately into his hair. In the cool light of day, she appears (understandably) less excited about them, and the prospect of wearing an uncharacteristically concealing top to cover them.

She moves her chestnut-colored curls to one side, tilting her chin up to get a better look at one particularly noticeable hickey, splotched over the right side of her neck. Sylvain hears her inhale through gritted teeth as she touches it gently, and guilt pools in his stomach. He may have gotten more carried away than usual. But it can be difficult, sometimes, for him to temper how much he wants her. They so rarely have time together, and on multiple occasions the mere scent of her hair as they pass one another in the hall is enough to drive him mad.

Dorothea is always the more practical one. If there is ever a moment where her desire overtakes her, she is excellent at hiding it. It has always been that way, ever since their academy days; she is one of the few women who would sneak back to her own bed in the wee hours as much as he did. The difference now, of course, is that Sylvain actually wants her to stay. He wants her to kiss him in the courtyard and not care who sees; he wants everyone who catches them strolling together through the monastery to know that she is his, and he is hers.

A soft glow catches his attention. He sees Dorothea’s palms hovering inches above her skin, magic pulsing against the mark on her neck. She holds it there for nearly a minute, swirling her hand in a slow figure eight pattern. As the light dims and her arm drops, there is nothing left but a barely off-color patch. Sylvain frowns. It's an unreasonable thing to get upset about, he knows; but somehow he cannot shake the feeling that she is willfully concealing any trace of him left on her body. Erasing, even. If not for the evidence he'd so lovingly drawn on her, would she already have fled his room?

He flutters his eyes shut when she pivots around, hears her bare feet pad slowly across the cerulean rug. The wooden floor and bed frame creak as she leans back onto the mattress, unraveling the mess of blankets and running the reverse side of her hand along the edge of his thigh as she does. Her back is cool against the front of his torso, and her fingers encircle his wrist as she guides his arm gently onto her waist, his relaxed hand just barely grazing her pelvis. Sylvain's anxious thoughts are pushed from his mind as their bodies melt into each other, letting the quiet of Sunday morning lull them back to sleep.

There's only one thing neither of them can erase: Sylvain's feelings for Dorothea, so persistent that they may as well be seared into his own skin. He decides that by the end of today, he needs to know if she loves him back.

-

Everyone is surprised to see Sylvain at the training grounds. Even more so by the fact that he has been there for the majority of the afternoon, putting himself to work with an intense focus normally only seen on the battlefield. It is all he can do to distract himself from the butterflies that have made themselves comfortable in his stomach. And the fact that, once again, Dorothea left without saying goodbye.

She’s been gone all day - running errands in town, as the gatekeeper so helpfully informed him - and for once, he feels the need to spend his free afternoon doing work of his own. Still, the sun is beginning to dip low in the sky, and he expects her to return any minute now. The anticipation is beginning to beat out the adrenaline coursing through his veins as his lance arcs gracefully through the air, breaking his sparring partner’s guard and effectively ending their bout.

“Let’s take five,” he says, relaxing his stance and retreating to the corner of the courtyard to get some water. A patrol guard passes by in the surrounding hall, one he recognizes from the monastery gates. “Hey,” he calls out, waving her over and receiving a few curious glances from the other soldiers. “Have you seen Dorothea?”

His inquiry is met with a quick giggle and a nod. “She’s in the cathedral, loverboy,” she says, and her laughter is echoed by her colleagues. Sylvain doesn’t have the energy to protest the nickname, no matter how deserving it is - certainly more than any of them realize. He bows his head in thanks, swiftly returning to pick up his training weapon and replace it carefully on one of the racks. He gives a quick wave to everyone before taking off.

It is an agonizingly long walk, and he has to will himself not to break into a jog. The sweat still glistening on his face and exposed arms is not ideal, but he’s already halfway there. And he imagines that when Dorothea hears what he has to say, she’ll have more important things to consider than whether he’s freshly showered or not.

He pauses at the end of the bridge, just below the great stone stairs leading up to the entrance, catching his breath and running a hand through his hair. “You can do this,” he whispers to himself, before taking a confident step up to the massive doorway.

Even in its current state of disrepair, Garreg Mach’s cathedral retains the dignity he remembers from before its abandonment. He runs a hand along the worn oak of one of the pews, peering up at the orange sunbeams breaking through the caved-in portions of the ceiling. Scaffolding is set up along the walls, the current focus of renovation efforts. But it being Sunday, nobody is currently working on that particular task. In fact, nobody is here in general. He basks in the tranquil silence; he’s never been particularly religious, but there’s something soothing about the beautifully carved facades and the elegant depictions of the saints filtering light through the stained glass windows.

The soles of his boots clack against the tarnished marble, echoing out and upwards along the stone columns as he walks through the nave, keeping his eyes peeled for a glimpse of Dorothea. He pauses at the crossing, scanning the room and feeling his heart drop at the thought that he’s missed her. “Cut me some slack, Goddess,” he says, his neck craning upward. Not that he suspects anyone is listening beyond the ceiling.

“My, Sylvain. What could possibly be weighing on your mind so much that you’ve dragged yourself all the way to church?” A familiar voice croons from his left. He orients himself toward it instantly, his pulse quickening. Dorothea walks slowly from the side entrance, her hips swaying hypnotically and the dark crimson of her skirt billowing out behind her. She stops about ten feet from him, her hands clasped politely in front of her. “Are you finally ready to repent for all your transgressions against women?”

“Is being an amazing lay really something I need to apologize for?” he answers, instinctively, and his mouth twists when he realizes what he’s said. Not exactly the tone he’s going for. Dorothea laughs anyway. Sylvain strides toward her, closing the distance she’s left between them.

His face flushes just from being near her, prompting him to draw his gaze away momentarily. It’s like looking directly at the sun - though maybe that is just due to the fact that she’s standing right in the middle of one of the rays of light peeking through the building. It washes her in a soft glow, enhancing the warm colors of her outfit and illuminating the subtle shades of brown and auburn that run through her hair.

He puts a hand to his mouth, clears his throat. “I was looking for you, actually,” he finally says.

“Oh?” Dorothea sings, her emerald eyes darkening flirtatiously, pupils dancing across his chest before meeting his gaze. “But you just saw me this morning. Could it be that you enjoyed my new trick from last night so thoroughly that you’ve come back for seconds?”

This is not much different from their usual banter, but still he feels embarrassment wash across his body. “That’s- I did quite like that, actually,” he says, losing his focus again. He regains it more quickly this time. “But no, that’s not it. I wanted to talk to you.”

She hums curiously, and he imagines she must know the effect her lilting voice has on him. “About what?” she asks, the words coming out light and breathy.

They lock eyes for a long moment, and Sylvain begins to feel his control slipping. “Just… things…” he says, slowly, losing himself in her gaze. He scans the details of her face: the arch of her brows, the curve of her cheekbones, the way her lower lip is stuck out in an almost-pout. His body leans in toward hers, face dropping and eyelids drooping, aching for a taste of her.

“Oh my goodness, did I do that?” she exclaims, jolting him out of the moment. Before he can react, her hand is on his neck, her middle and pointer fingers drawing light circles across a small patch of his skin with a concerned expression on her face. Her touch sends a delighted shiver down his spine. “Looks like I did that _several_ times, actually,” she says, half guilty and half pleased with herself.

He shrugs, realizing she must be talking about the small array of hickeys she’d given him. Nowhere near as many as he gave her, nor as noticeable, but they were there nonetheless. “You did,” he breathes, still relishing how close she is to him. “But hey, you should’ve seen the other guy,” he adds with a grin. If he squints, he can see the faded remnants of the matching marks he left on Dorothea. She must have spent a while cleaning those up.

“I can heal those up for you, if you want,” she offers, removing her hand to motion to her chest. “Another new trick, courtesy of Manuela. I gave it a whirl just this morning.”

“It’s fine, really,” Sylvain says, his jaw clenching. He’s been walking around all day with them, anyway.

Her hand returns to his neck, and this time she is actually pouting. “Come on, just one,” she insists. “It won’t hurt a bit, I promise.”

“No, Dorothea,” he says, his tone more biting than intended. She lets out a soft yelp when he grabs her wrist - another action that is more instinctive than deliberate, and he kicks himself thinking about how aggressive he must appear. A sigh escapes his lips as he releases her. “Sorry. But it really doesn’t bother me. I don’t care who sees them.”

If she understands the subtle implications of his latter statement - and he knows she’s capable of detecting such nuance - it’s not evident on her face. She tilts her head, shoulders scrunching to her ears nonchalantly. “I apologize. You always were pretty shameless about this kind of thing back in school, so it makes sense you still don’t care about it now-”

“That’s not it either!” Sylvain groans, pacing past her anxiously. He sinks down into one of the pews in the front row, holding his head in his hands. Why is this so difficult? Maybe he should just leave. He can’t imagine Dorothea taking him seriously after this complete fumble.

He hears her shuffle toward him quickly, feels her hand squeezing his shoulder and running soothingly across his upper back as she sits down beside him. “Sylvain,” she says, softly. A delicate tone she usually only reserves for the bedroom. His hands drop to rest on his knees, and he straightens up in his seat. Dorothea’s hand lingers at the base of his neck as she leans into his side, her cheek pressing against his bicep. “What did you want to talk to me about? Tell me, please.”

She’s warm against him, radiating out the sunlight she’s absorbed. Sylvain places his hand tentatively on her head, fingers threading through her hair. “You left without saying goodbye,” he says. The hand on his neck moves down slowly, linking with his arm and squeezing.

“I had somewhere to be. I didn’t want to wake you,” she explains.

“You know I don’t mind,” he says. There is more, but he’s unsure how exactly to articulate it. Instead his voice hangs as if he is going to continue, leaving a buzzing kind of silence between them.

Dorothea picks up the slack. “I’m sorry, then. It’s nothing personal, Sylvain.”

Of course it isn’t personal, he thinks. But he realizes he needs to be clearer. He shifts in his seat, turns to face her and presses his forehead down to hers. Before he can speak, Dorothea pulls away an inch, her eyes shifting side to side. Scanning the cathedral for any spectators.

Sylvain exhales audibly. “No one else is here, Dorothea. You can breathe easy.”

Understanding clicks in her eyes when she focuses on him again. It turns quickly to guilt and her gaze drops down to the wood, hands cupping his face. “You think I’m ashamed of you,” she mumbles, as if she’s confirming the fact more to herself than to him. Her touch has cooled significantly, but he leans into the soft flesh of her palm nonetheless. She traces the edge of his jaw, and when she tilts her face back up to him again she looks like she might just cry. “I am not ashamed of you.”

He puts his hands on her waist, feels the undulation of her breath. "But you have every right to be. Like you mentioned earlier about repenting… I have no intention of doing that. There's no point." Women have used him just as much as he's used them, and he refuses to ask forgiveness from a non-existent goddess. If there are any consequences for that, he's accepted them.

"Enough with the self-pity," Dorothea starts.

"I love you," he shoots back.

The cathedral was quiet before, but now it consumes them like a vacuum, weightless and breathtaking. Sylvain’s grip on her loosens and falls away, as if his whole body has gone numb. He leans back and away from her touch. “I love you, and you hold me at arm’s length,” he mutters. “Which is bad enough on its own. Even worse is the feeling that I absolutely deserve it.”

“You don’t,” she breathes, almost inaudibly. Her shoulders melt down and her posture readjusts, as if she is resetting for a scene. Her fingers fidget with each other before stilling suddenly, a testament to the meticulous control she has over herself. She blinks up at him, eyes wide and shimmering like a northern forest after the rain, lips parted just enough to catch the shimmer of her teeth like pearls in her mouth. It’s unclear what emotion she’s exhibiting, but Sylvain thinks it’s the most beautiful she’s ever looked. “I love you so much it hurts, Sylvain.”

He hears the words, and there is that same anticipation on the tip of her tongue, more to say. She gives him a moment to process them. Both their eyes flicker in assent and she moves to continue. “But-”

Sylvain’s finger darts to her lips, pressing softly to stop her. “Everything you say before ‘but’ is bullshit,” he says, playfully. She loves him, and that is the only thing he can handle right now.

Dorothea takes his hand gently in both of hers, plants a quick kiss on his knuckle before moving it from her mouth. “Let me rephrase it, then,” she begins, placing their hands lightly on her lap and giving him a squeeze, not ready to let go. “This war is tearing everything apart. People on both sides are dying each day, and it’s killing me too. You know this.” Of course he does. Nothing is certain, he thinks, gaze fixating on her fingers curled around his.

She tilts his chin up to look at her. “But I love you. I love you, and I want to be yours,” she says.

It is everything he’s wanted to hear and more. “Only if I get to be yours, too,” he responds.

"Of course," Dorothea sings, her voice growing low and gravelly as the hand resting against his jaw creeps over his ear and into his hair. It is a tone and a force in her grip that he has seen before, though never here. Never outside the proximity of their beds. In that sense, when Sylvain moves in to kiss her it is like the first time. He takes her lips in his with a consuming need, and it is not until Dorothea wraps her arms tightly around him and pushes him back, hungrily, against the creaking side of the wooden pew that he remembers where he is.

Sylvain wants to believe in the Goddess, just for a moment, because he wants Her to see this.

His lower back presses into the hard side of the seat, and Dorothea must sense his discomfort because she pulls away, leaning an elbow against the back of the bench. “It’s not the most ideal spot, is it?” she asks, a lingering finger tracing shapes across his chest before falling to her side. Sylvain watches with half-hooded eyes as her other arm arcs downward, drawing a line through the center of her body, catching on her belly button and then continuing to her lap, stroking over the creases of her skirt. Add in the way she holds his gaze while her teeth squeeze over the soft skin of her lip, and it’s as clear a signal as any.

“I’ve always wanted to fuck in a church,” he says, with all the direct irreverence they both expect out of him.

Dorothea raises an eyebrow. “You mean you haven’t? That’s surprising.”

“Most noblewomen are religious, or at least very good at pretending to be,” Sylvain explains with a casual shrug. “It’s a... difficult suggestion to make.”

“Luckily for you, I am neither noble nor pious,” she says, and she surveys the room briefly before honing in on one spot in particular. “Over there.” Her fingers point toward the great pile of rubble beyond the transept where, through a small window in the masses of rock, the altar of Seiros still stands untouched and undamaged. It is a place she settles on almost too quickly, and Sylvain can’t help but believe she has considered this very situation numerous times before.

He gives a hum of approval and turns back to her. In one fluid motion he rises from the pew and pivots on the marble; his hands grip the back of the bench on either side of her shoulders, supporting the crooked shape of his body as he leans over her mischievously. He catches her mouth by surprise with another passionate kiss, getting a good taste of her with his tongue, knuckles turning white against the wood. She lets him take hold of her by the forearms, pulling her up to her feet and flushing against him for a moment before turning to lead her into the sanctuary.

They step carefully over the broken pieces of ceiling, sidling up to the railing and slipping past the cool metal. Dorothea reaches the top of the steps first, sliding her fingers tentatively over the wooden corner of the podium, savoring the feel of the red velvet cloth draped over it. Sylvain catches up and turns her around, lifting her at the waist and setting her on the edge, making her the new centerpiece. Complete with the last lines of sunlight illuminating her skin through the high windows of the apse.

She wraps her legs around his torso to bring him as close as possible while he kisses her, his fingers working at the clasp of her choker. The cloth loosens and he scrapes them down her back, skipping over the strap between her shoulder blades for the moment and instead unhooking the rear closure of her corset. Her back relaxes forward as she takes hold of the latter piece, sliding out and dropping it off the side of the altar with a metallic clink. She finds his hips and steadies him, fingertips teasing the fabric of his shirt before peeling it up and over his head, discarding that onto the floor too.

Sylvain pulls away for a moment, their hot breath mingling together in the space between as they absorb the satisfying gravity of this situation. He slides the straps of her halter down and away, freeing her neck and taking it delicately in his hands. Dorothea’s breath hitches as the pads of his thumb rest over the thick lines of her carotids, feeling the satisfying vibration of her blood pumping just beneath the skin. Her inhales sharpen as he follows the slope of her shoulder, pushing down the ruched opening of her sleeves and watching as the crimson cloth wrapping her breasts falls forward, exposing the dark bodice underneath. The discarded outer layer drapes over the side of the altar.

“You look like you have something to say,” Dorothea whispers, her gaze scanning up and down his torso.

He smiles. “Only that I love you, again.” His head bobs forward, lips hovering at her neck. He pauses before moving forward, remembering the rough way he’s handled her before and wanting to try practicing restraint. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” Dorothea says, and Sylvain does not waste time taking her skin in his mouth, trailing several slow kisses as he searches for the exact right spot to latch onto. Once he finds it he teases her flesh with his teeth, sucking carefully; he's savoring the experience and the taste of it, the scent of perfume lingering below her ears.

Her fingers curl into his hair. “Mmmm,” she moans, lightly. Then her voice turns dark. “You’re holding back,” she adds. “I appreciate the thought, but I don’t want you to worship me, Sylvain. Not like I’m some delicate, holy object, anyway.”

A laugh escapes his lips and he releases her, moving to her ear. “You’re sitting on an altar. What else am I supposed to do?”

She tightens her grip on his scalp. “You love me. Get up here and fuck me like you mean it.” As she says it she straightens up, scooting herself back until she’s halfway across the velvet covering. She leans back on her hands, the heels of her boots hooking the sides of Sylvain’s waist, and watches him expectantly.

He leans forward to join her immediately, but stops himself. Dorothea doesn’t want to be worshipped, which means he doesn’t need to obey her exactly. And the way she looks at him now, with an intense longing clouding her green eyes and her feet bracing him against the wood, is something he wants to enjoy for just a bit longer. He relaxes away, gripping her ankles and giving her a light tug forward before undoing the buckles and slipping off her shoes, letting them fall one by one with a thud to the stone floor.

The smirk that flashes across her face scatters goosebumps along his bare arms. He rests her heels on the edge of the altar, spiking her knees upward as he pushes her legs apart. His hands slide up the smooth fabric of her stockings several times before he grips the wood again and vaults up, his own knees landing softly on the cloth and filling up the space he's created in front of her.

Dorothea giggles as he leans over her impatient form, faces hovering inches from each other, and closes the distance between their lips. Sylvain runs his hands down her back and cradles her ass, scooping her up and pulling her closer. As he sits back on his heels he rests her behind on the tops of his thighs. "Lie down," he says, lowering her back slowly onto the altar. Her legs straddle his own.

His hands move to her hips and over the tops of her legs, hiking up her skirt to expose the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Dorothea shudders as he walks his fingers lightly along her skin, moving closer and closer to the edges of her underwear. He tucks his fingers under the waistband and tugs them lightly down her thigh; Dorothea wiggles her lower half to aid the process. As her panties are slid halfway to her knees Sylvain guides her legs skyward, allowing him to free her completely of the undergarment.

He rests her calves on his shoulders, smiling at the eager expression she watches him with. From her face, his gaze travels along her body and back to her exposed pussy, conveniently angled up toward him. "What a compromising view," he purrs, before running his hand over her labia and eliciting a happy sigh. “And you're already so wet,” he says, easily slipping two fingers inside her and pumping slowly.

“That’s what happens when you take your sweet time,” she teases, arms raised above her head leisurely, hands gripping opposite elbows.

“Hmm, should I speed this up, then?” he asks, withdrawing his fingers and circling her opening before sliding up, painting her slick in slow circles against her clit. Dorothea releases a moan, grinding as much as she can into the source of her pleasure.

"Actually, you can keep doing that," she breathes, bucking her hips lightly as he continues to finger-fuck her. His free hand runs along the curve of her inner thigh, joined shortly by his mouth and tongue tracing the same path. Dorothea moans slowly at the sensation of his lips sucking her skin, his teeth adorning her with small, passionate bites she knows will leave a mark. That, in combination with his fingers working inside her, is enough to draw a long string of moans from her lips and cloud her eyes in dazed satisfaction.

But Sylvain is not done. She thinks he might be when he lifts his face from her legs and ceases the rhythmic pumping of his fingers, but it is only to free his hands in preparation. He seizes her hips and shifts her lower body further onto his legs, raising her rear to nearly stack above her waist. Her body inverts, shoulder blades at his knees and legs folding back over herself, taking on a sickle shape supported by Sylvain's palms pressed firmly against the tops of her thighs. He leans his head forward to kiss the underside of said thighs, then fans them apart just enough to dip his face into her folds.

"Fuck, Sylvain," Dorothea hisses, her tone a combination of curiosity and excitement. She reaches her hands toward her own straightened legs looming above her, lingering over the rough skin of Sylvain's knuckles before supporting herself at her knees. His tongue flicks in and out from her opening, spiraling around her edges. He plants open-mouthed kisses all along her nether-regions, spending extra time sucking at her clit and putting his name on her lips once again.

Her cries echo through the sanctuary, bouncing off the stained glass and playing like music in Sylvain's ears. "You look so beautiful like this," he says, voice low and muffled by dark curls. His words vibrate across her already shaking form, feeding her another kind of pleasure. She is close to her peak, they can both tell. Long, chestnut hair is spread out wildly behind her head, the color matching the wash of the wood beneath her. Dorothea has been fussing with it for ages now, calling it overgrown and unruly, but Sylvain can’t see it as anything but perfect.

"Let me ride you, Sylvain," she huffs, fingers twitching with the need to touch him. “Please,” she adds, almost inaudibly.

He chuckles, fingers padding playfully along her skin. "Can't say no to that," he says, reveling in the wide smile she flashes him. As if there were any other possible answer to that request.

Without missing a beat she slides herself off him carefully, propping up on her elbows and draping her knees carefully over his shoulders. Sylvain guides her as she inches backwards, pushing fully to a seat and rolling her neck, watching him sleepily. Her dress is wrinkled and gaping strangely from all the odd angles he’s moved her body around, and her hair looks even messier now that it’s been turned right-side-up again. But somehow, Dorothea always manages to make disarray look good.

Feeling adequately adjusted, she crosses her legs in front of her and rolls onto her knees. She meets Sylvain’s gaze evenly and deeply, crawling forward and reaching a hand tentatively to cup his cheek. Her fingers trace a line down to the side of his neck, lingering on the same dark spot she saw from earlier. Several more are visible now that his shirt had been removed, and Dorothea places soft kisses on each one. “I’m going to give you a million more of these,” she assures him.

“You better,” Sylvain says, and Dorothea responds with renewed ferocity. She digs one hand into his hair and pulls him into a kiss while the other runs down his bare chest and over the crotch of his pants, feeling out the shape of his hardening cock with her hands. Sylvain swallows a groan and rises up and into her touch, gripping her sides and pushing her back with his hands and lips until her shoulders are flush against the carved wooden backing of the altar.

She lets out a surprised huff at the sudden thud she makes against the wall. Recovering quickly, her hands work to undo his fly while Sylvain latches onto her neck, eager to leave some new marks. Once she maneuvers the buttons open she shimmies his pants and underwear down in one piece, giving his ass a squeeze as it’s exposed to the cooling air. They break away for an agonizing moment while Sylvain kicks his pants off one leg at a time; Dorothea hums excitedly to see him fully naked before her.

He feels her hands on his chest, forcing him to throw his arms back behind him and plant his feet solidly on the wood to stay upright. She chases him down, reclaiming the space now opened between his legs as she runs her hands along the length of them. Her eyes light up at the sight of his cock, standing tall and stiff in front of her. Her fingers flutter along the edge of his groin, softly caressing his balls first before making one full, slow stroke up his length.

Sylvain shudders, his mind turning foggy as she continues to grip his member, massaging the foreskin lightly with her thumb at the height of each upward stroke. “Dorothea,” he whispers, his arms shaking against the wood. He lets himself lie there for a moment, enjoying the feeling of her hands on him. Her hair sways back and forth as she pumps away, the ends brushing feather-soft against his skin. As her grip tightens and her pace quickens, he moves to sit up again and meets Dorothea's lips halfway. He continues to straighten into a seat, his legs closing in on her as she continues to work him up and down.

With their lips still locked, Sylvain places a hand softly on Dorothea's wrist, signalling her to release him. They pull apart for a moment, exchanging a knowing look as Dorothea maneuvers her legs to straddle his hips, allowing him to shift back onto his knees. He takes hold of her waist and pulls her flush against him, grinding her clit against his cock as she rests her arms on his shoulders and coils her legs around him. She is warm and wanting, holding his gaze with intensity as he rocks her back and forth over him, waiting for her to beg.

"Sylvain," she moans, resting her forehead against his.

"Yes, Dorothea?" he answers, drawing his nails lightly against her back. She still has her dress on, and he finally takes hold of the tie stretched across her shoulder blades.

"Nothing," she says with a smile, her shoulders squeezing together instinctively as he unhooks the fasteners. "I just like saying your name." She smiles wide, peeking her tongue through her teeth. "Syl. Vain." Her mouth stretches each syllable out slowly, her tongue clicking with each enunciation. The tiny piece of fabric holding her dress together falls away, and as she laughs the fabric crinkles and begins to slide down.

The giggling continues even as he kisses her. "You look like you want something," he says into her lips, fingers pushing the edge of her skirt upwards.

"Maybe," she sings as the dress goes over her head, watching Sylvain's eyes widen excitedly at the long-overdue sight of her breasts, round and soft and pressed against him. He purrs at the feeling of her skin on his, embracing her tightly and resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Just tell me what it is," he whispers, his cock still pulsing against her. The plan to entice her has backfired just a bit, and he's beginning to get impatient himself.

She breaks away, her hands gripping his shoulders with such force that he couldn't escape her eyes even if he wanted to. The playful tone is gone from her voice; he knows before she even speaks. "I want you inside me. Now."

A deep growl rolls out from his throat as he lifts her hips up, angling her over his length and inching the tip of his cock into her opening. His toes grip the wood for extra stability as he bucks his hips up to enter her completely, with enough speed and force that Dorothea gasps. "Yes," she breathes, her head rolling forward as she bites into the crook of his neck. She makes little effort to stifle her moans as he continues to thrust; Dorothea falls into his rhythm, their bodies undulating together.

"Fuck, Dorothea," he says as she scrapes her fingers down his back, retaliating by pushing deeper into her. His breath is quickly running ragged, and he braces his arm against the wall, sending his gaze above them briefly. The cathedral has darkened significantly, and the high stone arches look haunting in the dusk. A rising moon casts everything in silver, filling the chambers with shadow.

Somehow in the mess of heat and limbs and sloppy kisses, Sylvain’s mind wanders. His history with Dorothea spans over half a decade, and the sex has always been good. They would not have lasted this long if it wasn’t - the way Dorothea clenches around him, the way she shrieks his name skyward and then, moments later, whispers it ever so softly in his ear, is a clear enough reminder of that. But in this moment, with all their clothes scattered across the wood and stone and all their true feelings played on the table, he thinks - knows - it is the most intimate they have ever been.

“I love you, Dorothea,” he says, his breath hot on her neck. “More than a Faerghus sunrise. More than the stars in summer.”

She giggles. Which, coincidentally, might be the thing he loves about her most. But the soft flutter of her lashes as she looks at him with genuine admiration gives it a run for his money. “More than your pretty words in those pretty books you’re always reading?” she asks, tenderly cradling his head and twirling his hair with her fingers. He loves how she pretends she doesn't read them too.

“So much more,” he tells her.

There is no pause, no hesitation in her response. “I love you too, Sylvain,” she whispers.

He tightens his grip on her and nibbles along the edge of her jaw, lifting into a half-kneel and testing the stability of the altar. The wood holds, and he rises further into a standing position. Dorothea squeezes herself against him, almost slipping before he braces her against the stone wall and works his hips with rising intensity. As his pace quickens he bites back a moan, resting his head beside hers. As usual, Dorothea doesn’t hold back her cries.

“You’re close, aren’t you,” she says. It’s not a question. He angles her higher to look at her. With her flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, he knows she’s beginning to reach her peak too.

“Let’s come together,” he says. It’s not a suggestion. But Dorothea nods in understanding anyway, wrapping her arms around him again and pushing his head into her chest.

She is pulling him toward her so frantically, and he is pushing into her with such force that their bodies practically melt into the facade, becoming one with each other as well. Sylvain feels his release begin at the base of his spine, shaking through his body and building ever upward. His head swims and he feels weightless, the wall and the platform beneath them drifting away until all he can feel is Dorothea around him.

The lasting tingles dancing along his skin begin to dissipate to the sound of Dorothea’s soft panting in his ear. Carefully, he slides them both back down to the ground, pulling himself out of her slowly and pressing kisses into her chest, taking one of her breasts into his mouth. She runs her hands gently through his hair, resting against the wood with a happy sigh. He feels her lips on the top of his head. “You’re beautiful,” she mumbles. It is something that he is often telling her, and even in his elation he has trouble believing her statement is directed at him.

As if sensing his instinctive aversion to the compliment, Dorothea detaches him from her chest and directs him to face her. “Do you hear me, Sylvain? You’re beautiful,” she reiterates, louder this time.

When she looks at him like that, it’s hard to refuse her kind words. He smiles in acceptance, kissing her softly. A shiver runs down her spine. “It’s gotten pretty cold here, hasn’t it?” The heat of their passion is quickly fading into the night air. “We should head back to my room.”

She nods, hands gripping her discarded dress still wrinkled beneath her. “Not that I expect anyone to catch us here at this hour, but it wouldn’t hurt to make ourselves scarce.”

They move carefully off the altar, gathering their clothes and ensuring they haven’t left any messes behind. Dorothea restores the state of her outfit quite impressively; though it’s fortunate that it is dark, because there is only so much she can do for the rest of her. New hickeys - love bites, as Sylvain decides he will call them from now on - are already settling on her skin, and only a brush can deal with the current state of her hair.

It’s almost disappointing that nobody passes them on the way back to his room. They hold hands the entire way.

-

As they fall asleep under the warmth of his covers, Dorothea promises that she won’t leave him in the morning. She keeps her word.

Monday morning in the cafeteria is busy, which makes them all the more excited for everyone to see them arrive together, laughing and making as many excuses to place their hands on each other as possible. They are nestled into one of the empty tables in the corner, shoulder to shoulder on the bench and trying to eat silently. Sylvain has not felt this way in a while - possibly never. Everything is warm, and though the room is loud and crowded he barely notices anyone besides the woman next to him.

But there is another woman approaching them with a purpose. Professor Byleth catches Sylvain’s eye as she walks up to their table, giving a small wave as she slides into the seat across from them. “Good morning, you two,” she says. Dorothea sets her head against his shoulder, watching Byleth curiously. “You’re looking awfully chipper,” their former teacher observes.

“Just enjoying the food and the weather,” Dorothea responds, taking a small forkful of food and eating it daintily.

“Right,” Byleth says flatly, and Sylvain senses she is about to reveal her reason for joining their meal. “Listen,” she begins, leaning her elbows on the table and clasping her hands together. “There were a couple reports from yesterday evening of some… strange sounds coming from the cathedral.”

Dorothea does not miss a beat. “Oh my, really? Could there be some wild animals getting onto the grounds somehow?” Sylvain’s arm wraps around her waist casually as he tries his best to hide a nervous smile.

Byleth shakes her head slowly. “No, they were apparently distinctly human. We believe someone may have been... “ She trails off for a moment, her face reddening. With a quick sigh she continues: “Let’s just say there’s reason to believe the cathedral was being used for some inappropriate activities. And multiple sources indicate both of you were seen heading there around that time, so I was thinking you might be able to shed some light on the situation,” she says. Her gaze falls on Sylvain this time. There’s no doubt in his mind that she knows exactly what happened, and with who, and that no arguing will change Byleth’s mind.

He suspects she can make an exception for two of her army’s best soldiers, though. “Sounds like they must have been truly lost in the throes of passion to so blatantly disrespect our Goddess like that,” Sylvain says, not breaking eye contact. “Is what you want to say, right, Professor?” Dorothea looks between the two of them, twirling a finger nonchalantly through her hair.

One of her signature enigmatic smiles flashes across Byleth’s face. “Yes, I suppose so,” she says with a shrug. “But regardless, I would hope they have the self-awareness to not do it again,” she says. She rises abruptly to her feet, seemingly satisfied. “Alright, just thought I’d mention it to you. We don’t want too many wild rumors distracting the army from our main goal, do we?”

“We absolutely wouldn’t,” Dorothea says cheerfully, but Sylvain can tell that her voice is close to breaking. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Glad we all understand,” Byleth says, and turns to walk away. Her feet stop after a moment and she pivots back, her expression relaxed again. “Oh. And congratulations. I’ll see you both in the war council meeting later today,” she adds before walking off.

After the clacking of heels echoes away, Dorothea slouches in her seat and lets out an anxious huff. “Sweet Sothis, I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life,” she groans. Her concerned eyes scan the room before settling back on Sylvain. He watches her sympathetically. Neither of them are unfamiliar with being the topic of gossip, but this is a different kind of attention. For all Sylvain’s wanting their relationship to be public, even he wishes the previous evening’s tryst had been a bit more secret.

“I’d say she let us off easy, don’t you think?” He finds her hand under the table and gives it a light squeeze. A thought crosses his mind. “By the way,” he begins, drawing circles with his thumb over her knuckles. “What were you doing in the cathedral yesterday, anyway?”

She blushes unexpectedly at the question. “I was going to pray to the Goddess for victory.”

“So much for not being pious,” he teases.

Her eyes narrow playfully. “I must not be, still, if I let myself get distracted by you,” she says. "Now we'll just have to win this war without her help."

"I think we can manage." He has her, now, and that's one thing off his mind.

Dorothea leans against him again, and they both fall silent. It is a little thing, the way they can sit there and not say a word, while simultaneously saying everything.

And Sylvain loves to cherish the little things.

**Author's Note:**

> Would you believe this is my first time writing Dorovain in the game's original setting? It was pretty fun, actually. Big thank you to everyone for reading through my very self-indulgent need to make these two bang in a church. ;)


End file.
